


As Is

by Anonymous



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of drugs, Other, Song fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lanque's terrible, awful, no good jadeblood life (and the people who love him besides.)
Relationships: Lanque Bombyx & Bronya Ursama, Lanque Bombyx & Daraya Jonjet, Lanque Bombyx & Lynera Skalbi, Lanque Bombyx & MSPA Reader, Lanque Bombyx/MSPA Reader, Wanshi Adyata & Lanque Bombyx
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Anonymous





	As Is

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. This sure is a strange little fic! Do you ever hear a song that resonates SO STRONGLY with you about your thoughts and feelings about a fictional character? "As Is" by Ani Difranco is that song for me in regards to Lanque.
> 
> These are all fairly short, but there are six of them.

> _You can't hide_
> 
> _Behind social graces_
> 
> _So don't try_
> 
> _To be all touchy feely_
> 
> _Cause you lie_
> 
> _In my face of all places_
> 
> _But I've got no_
> 
> _Problem with that really_

The mirror is filthy, but you can see your reflection loud and clear.

From them? Dull teeth: no hickies. Damp temper: no injuries, and no thrill of the hunt besides. Your most recent conquest was a bust, through and through, but damn if your curiosity isn’t sated.

The sounds of the party thump dully against the private sanctuary you’ve found in the upstairs bathroom. Isn’t that just like a jadeblood? Dark, dank, and faraway, that’s where you always feel at home. You smirk to yourself, wiping the blood from your lips. 

You wonder if this is what Narcissus felt, staring into the pool. The power of your bite, the sharpness between your jaws, drawn to the deep and awful terror of never stopping being your fucking self. Sometimes you wonder if he even recognized the reflection of his own face.

...Here you are philosophizing, post-sex hormones coursing through you to the beat of the music. You’re feeling good, and you didn’t even get high yet. The day is young. You wonder how you’ll be getting home tonight, where home _is_ tonight, and how the light might shine through an unfamiliar window.

Someone pounds on your door. Fuck them, you were done anyway. You squeeze past some clown (and you’re used to that unknown clench, that thrill in your gut as you walk by, seen) and you saunter down the stairs. 

What’s the phrase? _You wear pride like a mantle._ The thought alone is enough to make you stand straighter, lower your eyes, lean into people like a predator. You’ve always been very good at playing pretend.

The party runs its course; it’s the same formula all parties follow. Except for one, small, sharp and pointy veer off the path.

Lynera’s still here.

What the hell is she doing? Well, you can answer that actually: she’s standing so still and tense in the center of it all that you wonder if her knees are about to give out. She’s got to be working up a sweat, and you wonder _how_ she’s here, in your world. Has anyone ever licked the sweat off of her back? Has anyone wondered about the taste of her blood? 

And the better question is: what the hell is she _still_ doing here?

You walk up to her. You grab her, your hands falling naturally and chastely to her waist and her shoulder. Her hands don’t go anywhere at all, still held straight and stiff at her sides. She can’t dance worth shit, but you’re good enough for the both of you to look enticingly mediocre together.

For a moment, you’re a child playing at soldier purrbeasts again. It’s never enough to just be strong, you have to be quicker and cleverer than all the rest. 

You take your hand off her shoulder, pushing a lock of your bangs behind your ear. You smile an earnest smile. You speak, just below the music. Low enough that you can’t be heard, but this time the words don’t matter anyway.

“What? _What?_ ” She asks, finally pushing you off her. She points at you, hand on her hip and all authority again. “I was asked to stay put!” And then, her posture softening, her hand wringing some excess fabric from her skirt: “Leave me alone. I’m waiting for someone.”

Figures.

“What’s wrong? Couldn’t make nice with members of our own species?”

She scowls. She gets in your space.

“Who are you to tell _me_ about making nice? Yes, I have one friend. How many do you have?”

You can count on one hand how many people would call you their friend. You don’t even need that one hand to count how many people would wait for you at a party where you felt nervous. It stings. You react the only way you know how.

“For the record: they’re a lousy lay.”

Either she’s becoming too used to you, or there’s less bite to your bark than you thought: Lynera doesn’t react the way you expected.

“I should- I just _want_ to make sure they’re okay.” 

_They’re_. The word rings in your head. They’re. Not “you’re.” Not “everyone involved,” which is wordy anyway. _They’re_. And you should have known better than to hope.

You have to give Lynera credit: she’s definitely got the upper hand. You’re losing ground, and fast. You smile again, folding your hands in front of you. Lynera, on some subconscious level, recognizes the posture, recognizes the smile and the hang of your hair, and so Lynera relaxes.

“What will Bronya say? She’s finally been replaced.”

“No,” Lynera says softly. Her face is so wistful. How can she be so honest? What happened, exactly, between her and this alien? You scowl at her before you realize what you’re doing.

This, more than anything, sets her off.

“Will you just. Shut. _Up!_ You can’t seem to shut up about them! Maybe _you_ finally found _yours!_ And it serves you r-”

You can’t help but laugh, startled and hurt. Just then, she turns slightly and freezes. So do you; what’s she looking at? But before you see them, Lynera is brushing past you with all of the anxious grace of somebody who really doesn’t want to be there.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, she leaves, less than twenty minutes later, with the same guest she arrived with. Neither of them looks back to you.

You wonder: if Narcissus saw his face for the first time, and it looked like yours did now, how long could he stand to keep looking?


End file.
